Page 37 of The Mafia's Quintuplets

Mak

Iwatch Wil through the rearview mirror as our motorcade speeds through the darkened city streets. She sits utterly still, clutching the potted rosebush to her chest like a shield, her eyes vacant and red-rimmed. The blanket Leonid provided slips from her shoulders, but she doesn't seem to notice, focused entirely on some internal landscape of grief I can't access.

This isn't how I wanted to bring her into my world. Not with her roommate's blood still drying on her clothes, nor with the haunted look of someone whose life has been shattered beyond recognition. I wanted to convince her and to earn her trust gradually. Instead, violence has forced her hand, exactly as I feared it would.

"We'll be there in twenty minutes," I say, breaking the heavy silence. "Is there anything you need immediately?"

She doesn't respond, doesn't even blink. The shock has rendered her almost catatonic. I recognize the symptoms from men I've seen after particularly brutal firefights, the thousand-yard stare, the shallow breathing, and the complete dissociation from present reality.

I don't push further. There's nothing I can say that will ease what she's experienced tonight. Instead, I send a text message to Mrs. Petrova, alerting her to prepare for our arrival and emphasizing the need for gentle handling. If anyone can provide the maternal comfort Wil needs right now, it's the woman who practically raised me after my own mother's death.

The city lights fade as we enter the more exclusive suburbs, properties growing larger and farther apart until we reach the affluent enclave where the Vorobev estate has stood for three generations. The motorcade slows as we approach the first security checkpoint, an unassuming guardhouse that belies the sophisticated surveillance systems monitoring every approach.

Armed men in tactical gear step forward, checking beneath each vehicle with mirror poles despite knowing exactly who travels inside. The lead guard nods respectfully when he sees me, but maintains protocol, scanning retinas and checking identification before allowing us to proceed. I've created these layers of security precisely to prevent the kind of attack that occurred tonight, and the irony that Wil is now trapped within my protective measures after rejecting them isn't lost on me.

Our convoy of black SUVs passes through the first checkpoint at the perimeter, then the second at the halfway point, and finally the third just before the main gates. At each stop, heavily armed men verify our identities with increasing levels of scrutiny. What has always represented necessary protection to me suddenly appears as an intimidating display of force when viewed through Wil's potential perspective.

The winding driveway opens onto a circular approach before the main entrance to my estate. Floodlights illuminate the stone facade, highlighting the imposing architecture with its gothic flourishes and fortress-like construction. I've always found the building's solidity reassuring. It’s a physical manifestation of the strength and permanence I've fought to establish for the Vorobev name. Tonight, however, I see it through new eyes, and it looks cold and forbidding, more prison than sanctuary.

Despite it being nearly three in the morning, staff await our arrival, standing at attention as the cars pull to a stop. Leonid opens my door first, as protocol demands, but I circle the vehicle quickly to assist Wil myself. When I open her door, she doesn't move immediately, as if the transition from car to house requires more energy than she currently possesses.

"We're here," I say gently, offering my hand.

She looks at it blankly before finally extending her own, allowing me to help her from the vehicle. Her fingers are ice-cold despite the warm spring night, and she withdraws from my touch the moment she's steady on her feet.

Mrs. Petrova steps forward from the assembled staff, her silver hair pulled back in its usual severe bun. Unlike the others, who maintain a professional distance, she approaches directly, her Russian-accented English warm with genuine concern.

"You're safe now, dear," she says, her experienced gaze taking in Wil's blood-stained clothing and shell-shocked expression. "Let's get you cleaned up and settled."

Wil allows herself to be guided toward the entrance, still clutching her plant but offering no resistance. I follow them into the grand foyer, seeing my home through my new perception. The marble floors gleam coldly under crystal chandeliers that cast prismatic patterns across priceless artwork. A massive staircase with ornate banisters sweeps upward, flanked by classical sculptures acquired by my grandfather during his European travels.

Everything is immaculate, polished to perfection, and utterly devoid of warmth or personality. I've spent millions creating an environment that projects power and unassailable taste, never once considering whether it feels like a home. There are no personal photographs and no comfortable spaces on the first floor designed for relaxation rather than impression. Even the flowers arranged in massive urns are chosen for visual impact rather than scent or sentiment.

Wil looks impossibly small amid all this grandeur with her simple nightclothes stained with blood, and her feet bare against the cold marble. When I step forward to guide her with a gentle hand at her elbow, she flinches away from my touch, the first real reaction she's shown since we left Brooklyn.

The rejection stings more than it should. This woman has just lost her closest friend, seen violence erupt in what should have been her safe space, and been forced to seek protection from a man she clearly fears. Her recoil from my touch is the most rational response possible under the circumstances. Still, the way she shrinks from me feels like failure.

"Mrs. Petrova will show you to your rooms," I say, maintaining a careful distance. "Everything you need should be there, but if anything is missing, just ask."

Mrs. Petrova takes charge with the quiet competence that has defined her service to my family for decades. "Come with me, Miss Lamb," she says gently, not attempting physical contact after witnessing Wil's reaction to mine. "We have a suite prepared in the east wing. It's private and quiet there."

As they move toward the grand staircase, I notice the slight tremor in Wil's legs, and the way she grips the banister with intensity to steady herself. The rosebush never leaves her grasp, cradled in her free arm like a child. That plant clearly means something significant to her. Perhaps it’s her only anchor to the life that was violently ripped away tonight.

"Leonid," I say once they've disappeared from view, dropping the controlled facade I've maintained since the Brooklyn apartment. "Find the best botanist in the city. I want them here tomorrow morning."

He nods without questioning the unusual request, already making a note in his phone. Such immediate compliance is why Leonid has survived so long in my service. He understands when to question and when to simply execute.

"And the girl's funeral arrangements?" he asks quietly.

"Find her family, if she has any. If there’s no family, handle it personally, though do get Wil’s input, but only if she seems up to it. Regardless of who plans it, we’re covering the full expenses. Make sure the official report shows no connection to us. It should be a random home invasion gone wrong." The lie tastes bitter, but necessary. The truth would only bring more danger and unwanted attention. "If she has family, make sure they're taken care of anonymously."

"And those responsible?" His tone remains professional, but I catch the underlying rage. He takes attacks on my interests personally, and an attack that resulted in death even more so.

"Find out who sent those men. I want every detail. Who ordered it, who funded it, and who executed it? Every. Single. Detail." My voice drops to a threatening whisper. "This wasn't just about getting to Wil. This was a message to me. Someone thinks they can take what's mine with impunity."

"The timing suggests Kazanov involvement," says Leonid. "They've been probing our territories for weeks. They’ve probably been following you as well. Making a trip to her place might have led them to investigate why you’d do so, or maybe, they just took a chance someone important to you was there."

"Perhaps, but this feels different. It seems more personal than strategic. The Kazanovs would have sent more men, who were better equipped. This felt...hasty. Reactive." I shake my head, frustrated by the lack of clear answers. "Cover all possibilities. I want information before I decide how to respond."

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